karate juice, truth serum, PALE

Okay, so all along I’ve been thinking that I have been cultivating a nice tan. It’s waxed and waned at times being better than others when I’ve had more time for the beach, but I honestly can say that my skin is a much healthier complexion than when I first arrived here. Not so, believes my new homestay father, who informed me with no reservations “girl, you look like you could use some color, let’s hope it’s sunny on Sunday and you can lay out on the roof.” So yes, I’m in my new homestay and it’s quite the trip. This homestay is in the Newlands area (Newlands East, for me) and my family is classified racially as coloured (if you’ll remember I explained earlier about the 4 races that exist in SA) although I thought I would be living with an Indian family. I am not disappointed. It’s really hard to be disappointed with a 7 year old brother who talks non-stop about everything and anything (including his 16 year old girlfriend and his 17 year old ex-fiancé). Literally this kid could go for hours, reminds me of a certain sister I had growing up, who would talk because she liked the sound of her own voice.
The homestay is only made better by my 13 year old homestay sister who truly enjoys both my musical and movie tastes. She loves party in the USA and Tic Toc and it makes me feel very at home. Also, she owns the Hannah Montana movie and watched it “probably every day for two straight months.” Ha, a girl of my own tastes. My mother and father are both police officers and have really opened my eyes to at least a microcosm of the state of law enforcement in this country. Turns out, it’s particularly acceptable to keep alcohol confiscated off any suspects if it is small quantities (read: a few bottles) because it’s hardly worth one’s time to write that up. In addition, pirated movies and Durban’s poison (marijuana) are just a casual part of the police lifestyle.
The drinking culture in this family is also something to write home about. When we arrived home from school on Friday, my fellow American student and I were handed cold beers to soothe our tired souls. Shortly after, Whitney Houston was turned on at full volume and our mother (who I think was already drunk) was ready to dance the night away and “relieve stress.” After we finished our first beers, we were encouraged to have another, and obliged, deciding to take part in our mother’s ritualistic distressing plan. The rest of what our mother had in store for us would cause me the next day to conclude that I would rather live with pent up stress than take an apple sours shooter (shots) ever again. Seriously though, whoever thought of making a sour apple hard liqueur should be punished by being forced to have 3 or 4 shots of it while listening to Whitney Houston want to dance with somebody louder than standing next to the speakers at her live concert. I have to conclude however, that apple sours were the drink of choice due to the fact that Vodka is considered “karate juice” in this family, as it makes those who drink it violent, and Gin, “truth serum” for its’ ability to render the consumer a blubbery, truthful mess (this is actually used as an interrogation technique).
Nursing slight hangovers the next morning (read: awful hangovers, how do people live like this?!) we attended a very early (9am) mini world cup at the Durban World Cup stadium. Whereas this would have been loads of fun on a normal day, the bright sunlight, hot temperatures, sweaty crowds and vuvuzelas (loud, horn like instruments that are culturally South African and blown rapidity at any and all soccer games) were not a recipe for hangover cure. Of course the games were running on South African time, and nothing really ended up starting until well after 11am, but I did enjoy marveling at the people who could so easily and with pleasure consume a foot long hotdog/sausage with all the works before noon. When the games finally started, we were treated to an opening ceremony of sorts with some cultural dancing. Naïve, American Judy assumed that the three different styles of dance displayed were supposed to represent an African dance, an Indian (or east-Asian) dance and an America or Western dance, and was shocked and surprised to find out that it was really ¾ of the race classification system represented (Black, Indian and Coloured). When I asked where the white dancers were (then, following the equality idea) I was laughed at and told whites can’t dance (I’ll take sweeping generalizations for 100). We returned home that afternoon, and I remembered how thankful I was that I now have a fan in my room and am no longer stuck making “sweat angels” as one, very accurate, David Sedaris put it.